


Auspicious Beginnings

by sarahgene12



Category: Quantum Leap
Genre: First Meetings, Fluff, M/M, Pre-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-21
Updated: 2016-09-21
Packaged: 2018-08-16 14:03:11
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,600
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8105194
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sarahgene12/pseuds/sarahgene12
Summary: Al Calavicci was dismissed from Project Star Bright and as-good-as replaced by a new whiz kid. He copes with this news by getting drunk and taking his anger out on a vending machine. Sam Beckett finds the Admiral and takes him home to recover. Neither of them realise the significance of their meeting or who the other is. In the end, there's a new beginning.





	

“Goddamn— lousy— hunk of junk!”   
Sam froze, with one arm inside his jacket. His mind had already switched itself off for the night, his body resigning itself to a night on the couch with Bonanza and a beer.   
He stood still and listened for a minute, determining just where the sounds of assault were coming from; the control room was locked tight, only accessible with a key card, which only himself and one other partner had. That other partner was in the Poconos.  
Yearning for the warm comfort of his couch, Sam sighed and slung his jacket over his shoulder, walking briskly in the direction of the noise.   
“Hello? Hey, who’s in here? Hello?”  
“Yeah- hey, buzz off, wouldja?!”   
Sam baulked, stopping in his tracks just before turning the corner in the hall.   
“I’m sorry? What—”  
“Are your ears broke, buddy? I said beat it!”  
This less than amiable invitation to leave the premises was punctuated by several loud grunts, and what sounded like metal scrunching on metal.   
Sam took a single step around the corner, just in time to see his friendly visitor swing what looked like a sledgehammer through the front of the lab’s only vending machine.   
Glass flew everywhere, spraying the machine’s assailant; he let loose with a string of curses which had Sam’s ears burning.   
His next swing of the hammer sent him spinning, performing a clumsy fouette and sitting down hard in the debris. Sam winced, and despite his incensement at the assault on his lab, he ran to help the stranger.   
“Hey buddy, are you alright? You’ve got a lotta glass—”  
The other man took a swing. Sam dodged it easily, thinking fast enough to catch the guy before he fell flat on his face.   
“The goddamned— machine ate my dime! It ate my lousy dime!”  
“Okay, okay, I gotcha— uh, why don’t we go over here and uh, make sure you’re not hurt, alright?”   
Sam half-dragged, half-carried his new problem through to the next hallway, avoiding the biggest spray of glass. He smelled what he guessed was whiskey every time the guy moved; it was almost like he had bathed in it.   
Once Sam had him propped up in a sitting position on the floor, he got his first good look at the intruder.   
Something about the guy was familiar; he was admittedly handsome, with a full and wild head of brown curls, and eyes of the same color; he looked like he could charm his way out of hell, and it occurred to Sam that that was a funny way to think of someone you’d just met.   
“If you’re gonna look at me like that, cutie, you better buy me dinner first.”  
Sam started, eyes wide and mouth slack with shock. He felt his cheeks burn pink. “Oh! N-no, I wasn’t—you look familiar, is all, I was j-just—”  
The stranger chuckled, clapping a strong hand on Sam’s shoulder. “Relax, kid. I’m not gonna bite. I’d only do that if this were a real date.” He winked.   
Sam was beside himself; he hated that he could feel the heat in his face growing steadily. He had always been an easy blusher. He looked down both ends of the hallway, praying someone might find them and he could offload this boozy burden on somebody else. He just wanted to go home.   
“Listen, uh, Mr.—”  
“Admiral!” The guy practically barked at him, and before Sam could think, he had the collar of Sam’s t-shirt wadded in his fists, their faces pulled close.   
“That’s Admiral Calavicci to you, ya rotten kid. I fought in the stinkin’ Vietnam war before you got your first girl to let ya cop a feel! I was watchin’ my buddies starve to death for four goddamn years, prayin’ the worst kind of prayer to a God I had no reason to believe was even up there anymore, and for what?! So I could be kicked out on my ass the minute I got back cuz some white-collar old bonehead thought I was a liability? So I could watch a whiz kid barely outta diapers become the golden boy while they couldn’t wait to send the schizo old man packing?!”  
The man’s voice rose in both volume and pitch the longer he went on; by the time he had spit out the last word, he had his forehead pressed to Sam’s and there was a note of desperation in his accusation that Sam didn’t like.   
Admiral Calavicci was breathing hard, blowing alcoholic clouds practically directly into Sam’s mouth. He was sweating, and the hand gripping Sam’s shirt had started to shake.   
A moment later, the trembling fingers slackened. Gravity sent Sam rocking backwards onto his heels, stirring the heaps of shattered glass. He watched the Admiral withdraw his hand from the air, watching the shaking limb slowly become still. The expression on the other man’s face was wretched.   
“Sir?”  
Sam didn’t dare reach out to him again, but he was worried.   
“M—Admiral, is there somewhere I can take you? Do you remember where you live?”   
“Don’t patronize me, kid. “ This, in barely a whisper, with Sam’s ears still ringing from the verbal assault.   
Sam scooted back further, and stood, careful not to press his hands on any glass. He extended his hand, and to his surprise, the admiral took it. With a groan and a sway or two, he was upright, relying heavily on the wall behind him to remain that way. He wouldn’t meet Sam’s eyes.   
“Really, sir, I can’t just leave you here. Do you have a place to stay tonight?”  
“I’ve had more tempting propositions from Gooshie, and that guy’s breath reeks like a pile of jockstraps.”  
“Gooshie?”  
The admiral shrugged. “Forget it. I’m yours if you’ll have me, kid.” He didn’t wink this time, but something told Sam the innuendo was intentional. Or maybe it was the whiskey talking.  
“Um. Sure. Lemme just pull the car around—”   
“Ha! Forget that! You think I’m leavin’ my machine out in the middle of this godforsaken wasteland all night? I’d rather go home with Gooshie! Nah, forget it, bucko, we’re takin’ my car.”  
Relieved that the guy was talking again and not throwing punches, Sam still rolled his eyes. “Aye, aye, captain. Lead the way.”  
“Lead the way to what?”  
“Oh boy.”

 

∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞

 

“Oh boy.”   
They’d made it out to the parking lot with little incident, and now Sam realized why the admiral had been reluctant to leave ‘his machine’ out in the middle of the desert. The thing was gorgeous.   
“I told you she was a knockout. What’s the matter, kid, you never seen a Ferrari before?”   
Sam baulked. “This is a Ferrari?! Holy smokes!”   
Admiral Calavicci grunted. “Say, where are you from, kid? You sound like a goddamned hick or something.” He was squinting at Sam, relying on the hood of the car to stay upright.   
Sam felt his face burning, with something like a mix of embarrassment and righteous indignation.   
“It doesn’t matter where I’m from, sir, you wouldn’t remember if I told you. Do you have the keys?”  
The admiral tossed them across the top of the car, one eyebrow raised in surprise.   
Sam settled into the driver’s seat, running his hands over the steering wheel. He turned, watching his rescued query pour himself into the passenger seat. The admiral slumped against the middle console, and groaned.   
“D’you need help with your seatbelt, sir?”  
Admiral Calavicci didn’t answer. One hand reached blindly behind him, swiping at the strap of the belt and just barely missing. Sam frowned, undid his own belt, and leaned across to help.   
With one hand, he braced the admiral upright, retrieving the seatbelt with the other and pulling it down until he heard it click.   
Without Sam’s support, the Admiral slumped forward in his seat.   
“Ah, you, ah, you just hold on, sir— uh, Admiral. W-we’re not far from my place, so uh, you just relax and I’ll get us there.”  
When Sam started the car, the roar of the engine snatched the breath right out of his chest. The whole machine rumbled around them. Sam sat for a minute and savored the vibrations, only remembering to move when his passenger began to snore. 

∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞

 

When the Ferrari finally pulled up in front of Sam’s apartment, he realized he was glad the admiral had fallen asleep. Otherwise he might’ve had a few choice words for the plain brown building in which his rescuer lived. Sam guessed that the car parked in front of number fifteen was worth much more than everything he’d brought with him into the desert.   
Sam pocketed the car keys and fished his own from the other pocket. He pushed open the door and braced it open with the battered and chipped garden gnome he kept nearby for that very purpose. When he returned to the Ferrari, Admiral Calavicci was still snoring, with his chin resting on his chest.   
“Okay, Admiral, up and at ’em! We’re here!”   
The former terror of vending machines everywhere didn’t move. Sam crouched down just outside the passenger side door, and laid a cautious hand on the admiral’s shoulder. He shook him once, gently.   
“Sir?”   
Still nothing.   
Sam sighed, resigning himself to the idea that there was only one way he was going to get any sleep that night. Praying the admiral wouldn’t wake up before they were safely inside, he snaked one arm around the slighter man’s back, and the other underneath both his knees.   
Carefully, slowly, he inched backwards, and stood upright, cradling the still-snoring man close to his chest. He knew he must look ridiculous, but at least the admiral wasn’t heavy. He reeked of whiskey, and his hair tickled the underside of Sam’s chin with every step, but it still wasn’t much worse than carrying a lamb.   
The little apartment didn’t look like much more than a cheap hotel room. It had a couch, a two-seater Sam had picked up from a yard sale, a rickety bedside table, two blown-glass lamps that reminded him a little too much of the bygone era of disco, and a single bed. He had a black-and-white TV sitting on top of his dresser, and an old refrigerator, bartered for from his landlord in exchange for a couple days’ yard work. He cooked his meals on a hot plate and kept his dishes stacked in the top drawer of the dresser.  
The only things that gave the place any feeling of warmth were the framed photographs of his parents, his brother Tom, and his sister Katie; these were crowded together on the second bedside table. Sam nodded a quick hello to each of them before depositing the dozing admiral gently on the narrow bed. He swiped his old flannel blanket from the back of the couch, and draped it over his guest.   
The guy looked so much nicer when he was asleep. His face softened, and he looked a lot less like somebody who had smashed up a vending machine in a drunken rage. Sam wondered about that. He wasn’t aware of any reason for this man to be there, had never seen him before, and yet— There had to be some reason why he’d been so angry.   
Without really knowing why he did it, Sam reached out and smoothed the admiral’s wild curls away from his face. They were soft, and shot through here and there with streaks of grey.   
He went into the bathroom and filled a small glass with water, and shook two aspirin out of the bottle. He placed these quietly on the bedside table nearest his guest, then turned out the light.   
Sam resigned himself to the couch, closed his eyes, and listened to the Admiral’s soft snores until finally, he himself fell asleep. 

∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞

Al woke slowly the next morning, feeling hot, dizzy, and like someone had stuffed his head full of broken glass. He was used to this feeling by now, knew he’d be useless for the rest of the day until suppertime, when he could pour himself another four fingers worth. Heck, he might not even wait that long.   
He rolled over onto his side, groaning when his stomach rolled faster. He thought he heard humming, but with the racket in his head it could’ve just been the backup band. He sat up carefully, and opened his eyes.   
The first thing he saw was the glass of water, and the little white tablets beside. Frowning, he took them, crunching the aspirin between his teeth and wincing at the bitter taste. He used the side table to help himself to his feet; the moment he did this, he heard the humming again, and turned towards the sound.   
Doing this also answered the question of the smell he’d noticed the moment he’d awoken. A young man with his back to Al was hovering over a ticking, spitting hot plate, pushing what looked but didn’t quite smell like scrambled eggs around the pan. He was humming to himself.   
Al cleared his throat, gruffly. The young man jumped, jarring the hotplate and nearly sending it and its contents flying. He turned, blushing pink.   
“Oh! Good morning! You’re awake!”   
Al grunted. “Sure looks that way. You mind turnin’ down the pep a bit, kid? My head feels smashed.”  
Sam brow furrowed in concern. “Oh, sure, sorry. You were pretty, uh— you got pretty drunk last night, huh? I had to carry you in here ’cause you fell asleep. H-how ya feelin’ now?”   
As if in answer, Al sat back down on the edge of the bed. “Not so hot. Is that breakfast?”   
Damned if the kid’s chest didn’t puff out in the middle of him scooping the stuff onto two plates. He handed Al his share, and a fork, and sat down on the bed beside the rescued admiral. Al scooched a little to his left.   
“Sorry I don’t have chairs. I don’t have a lot of guests, and there’s not a lot of extra room besides.”   
Al shrugged, not even looking at him. He poked at the pale yellow puddle on his plate. “Got any hot sauce?”   
He looked up at Sam. Christ, he actually was a kid, looked barely older than twenty. Haircut like a real nerd, except for that funny white streak. He got the idea to reach out and tug it, and almost did, before he realized the kid was still staring at him.   
“Uh, yeah, I do, but do you really think that’s a good idea, with your tum—uh, your stomach bein’ so sensitive?”   
Al blinked. His head throbbed. He stabbed at the mess on his plate and shoved a forkful into his mouth. He sensed Sam doing the same, watching him expectantly.   
Al swallowed, feeling the impulse to barf and fighting it hard. He smiled thinly at Sam, who was scarfing down his own plateful like he hadn’t eaten in days. When the plate was empty, he looked up at Al, wide-eyed and grinning.  
“So? How are they?”   
Al debated being cruel. He was hungover as hell, and this sparky kid had basically kidnapped him when all he’d wanted to do was bust up a couple of machines, maybe pass out outside that cute blonde receptionist’s room. She’d made eyes at him a couple times, and probably she was the last joker there that’d be happy to see him.   
But the kid had kept him from wrapping the Ferrari around a cactus, had gotten him to a bed and at least partially treated his headache. That was something. And as used to feeling miserable as he’d gotten lately, he didn’t like spreading that feeling around.   
So instead of telling the truth, Al took another grateful bite, and then another, and gave the kid a thumbs up. “Hey, you know, I think they’re just the thing I needed. Thanks, kid.”   
Sam beamed. Feeling only a little silly, as well as a little sick, Al grinned at him. And he felt the urge to tug on that white stripe again, too. The inclination scared him a little, so he took another bite of awful egg and said:  
“So kid, we’ve been kinda violently introduced, but I still don’t know where to send my thank-you flowers. What’s your name?”   
Was he blushing again?   
“Um, S-Sam Beckett. A-and yours?”   
Al set aside his plate and held out his hand. “Al Calavicci. Sorry about all that, uh, loony rank-pulling, by the way. You don’t gotta call me Admiral.”  
Sam grinned, taking Al’s hand and shaking it firmly. “Okay, Al.” He collected their plates, pretending not to notice Al watching him, but feeling a happy little skip in his chest anyway.   
From the other room, he asked, “So what were you doin’ at the lab anyway, Mr. Calavicci? Are you with the Star Bright project?”   
Al scoffed. “Eh, I was with Star Bright, yeah, up until very recently. I was doin’ everything for those bozos, short from shootin’ aliens outta my ass and they decide I’m too much of a liability. Say they’ve hired this new kid, some star suck-up of Dr. LoNigro’s, I guess.”  
Sam stood in front of the sink in the tiny kitchen, frozen in the middle of drying their plates. An image of Al wielding a sledgehammer like a drunken vigilante popped into his head, and stilled his tongue.   
“You okay in there, kid?”   
“O-h, oh yeah, s— m— I’m alright! Just finishin’ up these dishes! Just gotta—I’ll be just a minute!” He realizes he’s shaking, and wonders if it’s too early for that beer he never got to have.   
“Take your time, Sammy boy, I think I’m gonna sneak some snoozola ‘til you’re finished.”   
Sam waits until he can hear Al snoring again (it doesn’t take long), and tiptoes past the bed to the couch, where he collapses. He knows he’s probably being ridiculous, but he can’t help but wonder what will happen when Al finds out who he is. He sits and listens to his heart beating in his chest.   
What feels like ten minutes passes, and and Sam stands up, rolls his head around on his neck a couple of times, and sighs. His breakfast sits heavy in his stomach, but he reassures himself against any future hostility from the Admiral by reminding himself that Al had pretended to like his scrambled eggs. He knew they were bad, but it was all he knew how to make. Anybody who would do that probably wouldn’t bash your brains in with a hammer just for getting them fired, would they?   
Sam dresses quietly, sitting on the couch to slip into his shoes. He doesn’t get that beer, but he leans back into the soft cushions, and sighs again.   
He’s barely awake when he senses movement somewhere in the room. When he opens his eyes, Al is leaned in close, his nose nearly touching Sam’s. His eyes are blazing and his breath stinks of scrambled egg and booze. He reaches out and grabs Sam’s shoulders with both hands, clamping down hard.   
“Alright, bozo, how do you know about Star Bright? What’s your angle here, huh? You somebody’s intern? You workin’ for Collins? Bartlett? Whattya know, ya boot-lickin’ little twerp?”  
“I’m Doctor Sam Beckett! I’m the one Dr. LoNigro recommended! Please! Lemme go!” Sam yelped, grabbing at Al’s arms. He could’ve easily overpowered him if he really wanted to. And he did want to. But Al was hungover, and not completely unjustified in his anger. So Sam didn’t struggle.   
Al backed off, slowly. It took him a moment to stand completely upright, and he swayed a little even so. He stared down at Sam, chest heaving.   
“How—” he pressed a hand to his forehead, wincing. “How the hell are you a doctor? You’re just a kid.”   
Sam stared right back, swallowing hard. “I-I am a doctor, M-Mr. Calavicci. I went to MIT, that’s how I know Dr. LoNigro, see, a-and we developed this theory, a-a string theory. It has to do with time travel, see, b-b-but I’m also a physicist, that’s why I’m with Star Bright, but I didn’t know they fired you, I had no idea, I’m sorry! I don’t think—”  
“Shut up, kid. You’re makin’ my head sore.”  
Sam shut up, and waited. To his surprise, Al sat down beside him on the couch, closer than when they’d eaten breakfast on the bed. He cursed under his breath, colorfully enough to make Sam’s ears burn, then sighed. He dropped his hand on Sam’s knee.   
“I’m sorry too, Sam. I shouldn’t’ve skinned ya so hard. That wasn’t fair.”  
Sam stayed quiet, mind secretly screaming at the sensation of the Admiral’s hand on his knee.   
“I’m a lousy drunk, and I got mad. If you hadn’t been there last night I might’ve done somethin’ worse than what I did so, I guess I’m trying to say, thanks. Thanks for not lettin’ me kill myself over a stupid job.”  
Al looked at him then, a perfect picture of calm; he seemed sincere to Sam, whose mind was still buzzing at the Admiral’s touch.   
Smiling a little unsteadily, Sam said, “You’re w-welcome, Al. A-and listen, maybe it’s not over, maybe I could talk to LoNigro and Collins and everybody and convince them to keep you, I mean, the project’s not perfect, we need all the help we can get.”  
Before he could decide it wasn’t a good idea, Al reached up and tugged once on Sam’s white forelock. He laughed at the expression of surprise on the young doctor’s face, and winked.  
“I’d like that, kid. I’d like that a lot.”


End file.
